Keenan was going to say.
“What?”
“The aTF is going on record, as we speak, that this was an explosion resulting from natural causes. Without direct evidence of a bomb, what you suggest is purely supposition. aTF will view any alternative theories we bring up as a challenge to their authority in the area of explosives determination.”
“Oh, for crying—”
“Think about the state of relations at the Washington level among our respective agencies just now,” Farnsworth said.
“Which haven’t been helped by Ken Whittaker’s death, during what was essentially a Bureau deal.”
Janet took a deep breath and then let it out.
“So if we could find Kreiss,” she said, “maybe we could firm this up a little?”
“If you find Kreiss, he goes in a box somewhere where nobody can get to him, and that includes aTF,” Foster said.
“Assistant Director Marchand has those instructions from the deputy AG’s office. Edwin Kreiss isn’t going to testify to anything. We can’t allow it.”
“Hell, I suspect he wouldn’t allow it,” Janet said.
That last remark produced an uncomfortable silence, which Keenan finally broke.
“Look, boss,” he said, addressing Farnsworth.
“It’s time to elevate this hairball to headquarters. Tell ‘em what we know, tell ‘em what we think, and then hunker back down in the weeds, where we belong.”
“I represent headquarters,” Foster told him.
“Not my part of it,” Farnsworth said. There was a strained silence in the room. Finally, Farnsworth instructed Keenan to keep looking for Edwin Kreiss. He told Janet to notify Keenan if she had any further contact from Kreiss, and to get with the surveillance people to put a locating tap on the hospital lines into the I.C.U, where his daughter was. The RA and Foster then went into the secure-communications cube to get on the horn to Richmond, which, as the supervisory field office, was directly over the Roanoke RA.
Keenan stopped Janet outside Farnsworth’s office. As Farnsworth’s deputy, he dealt primarily with the four squad supervisors, so he had not had very much direct contact with Janet.
“You’ve met this guy Kreiss,” he said.
“Whose side is he on if this does turn out to be a bomb plot against the seat of government?”
Janet had to think about that.
“I’ve met him, but I wouldn’t say I know him. All these bomb conspiracies notwithstanding, the only thing Kreiss has ever been focused on was finding his daughter. She is now at least safe, if not fully recovered. I don’t know whose side he’d be on.”
“You’re the last person who spoke directly to him,” Keenan said gently.
“Take a guess.”
Janet sighed.
“Well, sir, if Kreiss thinks the older McGarand had a part in kidnapping his daughter and getting her hurt, he’ll pursue him and punish him, maybe even kill him. Everything else would be incidental
to that objective. I don’t think Edwin Kreiss takes sides anymore, and I don’t think he takes prisoners, either, or at least not for very long.”
Keenan nodded thoughtfully.
“Do you understand what Foster and his buddy over at Main Justice are up to?” he asked.
“No, sir, I haven’t a clue. But if Foster’s really acting for Assistant Director Marchand, I think it has something to do with what happened when Kreiss was forcibly retired.”
Keenan looked away, nodded his head slowly.
“Lord, I hope not,” he said, and then went back into his office.
Kreiss had left the interstate near Harrisonburg and made his way east over to the Skyline Drive, the mountain road. It would be much slower than running the interstate, but it accomplished two things: It got him out of the state police’s primary surveillance zone, and the narrow, winding mountain road made it easy to spot a tail. He left the Skyline Drive south of Front Royal and worked the back roads along the Blue Ridge and the Shenandoah River into Clarke County until he cut U.S. Route 50, at which point he turned east and joined the morning rush-hour traffic. An astonishing number of cars were headed into Washington at that hour of the morning, but the heavy traffic would be a good place to hide his vehicle in case the northern Virginia cops had been alerted. By the time he’d made it down through Upperville, Middleburg, and Aldie, it was nearing 7:00 A.M. He was now in familiar territory, having lived in northern Virginia for many years, so when he hit Route 58, the Dulles Airport connector, he got off the main highway and stopped at a diner next to a large shopping mall for some coffee and breakfast.
As he watched the sluggish stream of commuter traffic drag by on the four-lane highway outside, he thought about his next steps. Ideally, he needed another vehicle. Second, he needed a place to stay while he hunted McGarand. Third, he wouldn’t mind a nice GPS position on McGarand and the propane truck. He smiled grimly. Actually, finding McGarand shouldn’t be all that hard, as long as he stayed with that distinctive green-and-white truck. The Washington area was served by a large metropolitan gas company, which meant that there were not a lot of propane customers in or near the city. Driving something like that downtown, especially in Washington, was strictly regulated, which left the Maryland and northern Virginia suburbs. If he intended to park it, he would most likely use a truck stop along the Beltway. The biggest trucking terminals in the Washington area were in Alexandria, on the
Virginia side of the Potomac River, and near the rail yards on the Maryland side.
Browne McGarand had come up from southwest Virginia, so Kreiss would begin his search in Alexandria along 1-95 and 1-49$.
The easiest way for him to get a new vehicle would be to rent one. For that, he needed to get to a couple of ATMs. He had brought some cash with him, and there was a motel right behind the diner. He would prepay a room, park his truck in the back somewhere, get cleaned up, and walk over to the mall, where there were bound to be ATMs. Then he would taxi over to Dulles, rent a van, find a trucker’s atlas or an exit guide, and get to work. Then it would be a matter of slogging through the Washington-area trucking centers, looking for that propane truck. He remembered that there had been a logo on the truck, but he couldn’t recollect what it said. Something about that logo had not been quite right, but he simply could not remember it. So, first a motel room and a shower. Then some scut work.
Browne McGarand got off the Beltway and made his way up U.S. Route 1 into the rail yards on the Reagan National Airport side of Crystal City.
He parked at an all-night diner and got some breakfast. He and Jared had scouted out this phase of the plan some months ago. He would drive into Crystal City proper after rush hour, staying on the old Jefferson Davis Highway until he reached the Pentagon interchange, just before Route 1 ascended onto the Fourteenth Street Bridge over the Potomac. Then he would get back off the elevated highway, loop underneath it, and drive down a small two-lane road that led into the Pentagon parking areas. Just before the turn that would take him into Pentagon South Parking, he would turn into the driveway that led to the Pentagon power plant.
The power plant had originally been a coal-fired facility, then an oil fired one, designed to provide emergency power to the huge military headquarters. Now it housed a dozen large gas turbine generators in a fenced yard next to what had been its coal yard. Because the gas turbine emergency generators could be started remotely from the Pentagon, the facility was no longer manned. Its entrances had been chained and locked.
All except the parking lot, which was really an extension of the old coal yard. The parking lot had a long chain across it, but no lock, probably to let fire trucks get in. The coal yard, now empty, was surrounded on three sides by high concrete walls, originally used to contain a small mountain of coal. He would back the truck out of sight of the entranceway and shut it down. It had been Jared who had found
this spot when he’d gotten lost in the maze of roads around the approaches to the Fourteenth Street Bridge. He’d blown a tire right in front of the power plant, pulled into the driveway to change it, and discovered the perfect hiding place. Someone would have to come into the driveway and then all the way back into the old coal yard ever to see the truck.
From the power plant, it was a five-minute walk to the Pentagon Metro station. Browne was dressed in what
